My romantic suspense novella Rattling the Cage Ellora’s Cave.
Montana Lee wants a life outside of Rattler City, Nevada, a hellhole of a town where the law strikes fear in its residents. Slapped with a reputation from a mother she hardly knew and a debt that keeps her slaving for pennies at the bar, her dream of escaping to become a dancer remains out of reach. But the winds change when a muscle-bound drifter named Lawson struts into town exuding danger and an undercurrent of raw sexual energy. Convinced he’s the key to her escape, Montana makes it a priority to capture his attention.
Anger and darkness have consumed Lawson for years, leading him back to the town that robbed him of his childhood. His plans for vengeance are simple—find the stolen money, kill the one responsible for the demise of his family and destroy the town. He didn’t count on Montana or her will to seduce…both proving impossible to ignore.
He breezed into the bar, a flurry of rough denim and attitude. Fire blazed behind his silvery-blue eyes. Jaws clenched as though he had fangs for teeth. The glimmer of a dimple in his left cheek as he twisted his face into a sneer gave away the fact that he was indeed human. In one fluid motion he grabbed the pool stick from one of the regulars and slammed the unsuspecting cuss up against the wall.
“I don’t like scum who touch my truck. Catch my drift?”
Amos shook in his raggedy-ass boots, and if he hadn’t been wearing his oversized coat, everyone else would have noticed him piss his pants. Montana Lee happened to have been close enough to smell the pungent odor, but ignored it, too intrigued by the testosterone-induced altercation.
The Stetson-wearing stranger let go of Amos and the sniveling man sank to the floor, the whites of his eyes stained yellow in the dim light. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the jukebox quieted.
Mister Mysterious guzzled back a pint of beer and propped his body against the bar. Montana remembered how her limbs worked and shut off the water faucet before the sink overflowed. A shattered shot glass lay at her feet.
He was the roughest thing she’d seen in all her twenty-three years. His fine ass filled out tight black jeans, and a well-chiseled chest peeked out from his white shirt missing its top two buttons. From beneath his hat, dark shoulder-length hair, black as oil, beckoned her fingers to run through it, and his eyes raged like a butcher after a fresh killing.
He glanced in her direction and she almost swallowed her gum. She wondered how he liked his women.
She wanted to be his woman, if only for a night.
Again the dimple made its appearance, and a hint of mischief accompanied his smile.
From his back pocket he pulled out a wad of bills and tossed it onto the countertop. Montana jutted out her breasts and leaned over for show. While not model perfect, her lean muscles and curves provoked attention.
To her dismay, his eyes remained upright.
Stung by his disinterest, she pivoted and pushed a loose hair from her brow. Feeding his ego didn’t rate high on her priority list.
Montana snagged a dishtowel and busied herself with drying glasses. She blew a large pink bubble with her gum to the count of ten, sucked it back in and faced the now empty space at the bar.
The door ahead swung shut.
The dark-haired drifter had stirred up a dust cloud deep within her soul. An unbearable, restless ache. She pictured his hands. Manly. Tornado strong. Able to fling grown men like Amos, or leotard-wearing bastards like the guy from TV, into oblivion. Able to hoist her up and around his waist and take her hard against the wall.
A slow burn smoldered between her thighs.